32

The high-speed elevator deposits us in the financial center’s underground garage, where a Lincoln limousine is waiting. Sleek, sensuous, with the finish of a black mirror, it makes the Russian Zil look like an armored personnel carrier. The license plate reads TRAVIS. Rubineau and I settle in the backseat, Scotto in one of the jump seats facing us. The chauffeur swings up the spiraling ramp, onto Biscayne Boulevard, then takes Flagler west across the Miami River.

We’re gliding through the sweltering streets in air-conditioned comfort when I notice the fronts of the bars and markets are gradually becoming sprinkled with Spanish. Soon, we’re in a quarter of the city alive with an earthy gaiety that reminds me of Havana when I was there twenty years ago. Colorful explosions of neon, plastic, and paint advertise: CAFÉ CUBANO, LOS PINARENOS, MAXIMO GOMEZ PARK, LAS CASA DE LOS TRUCOS, EL CRÉDITO, VARADERO MARKET. Old men in embroidered shirts that Rubineau calls guayaberas shuffle about blithely. Dark-haired women bargain fiercely with merchants who hawk their wares from pushcarts and rickety stands.

Without any prompting from Rubineau, the chauffeur slows and parks in front of a flower shop. It’s bursting with displays that spill out across the sidewalk.

“Don’t go ’way,” Rubineau says as the chauffeur opens the door for him. He unfolds his lanky frame and crosses to the Cuban proprietor, who greets him warmly.

“What the hell’s he up to?” I wonder after the door closes.

“Beats me,” Scotto replies. “But I think he’s lying through his teeth.”

It catches me a little off guard. “Why?”

“You see the telescope in his office?”

I nod, still unable to imagine where she’s headed.

“But you didn’t notice it was aimed right at the piers, did you? Ten to one he’s keeping an eye on container nine-five-eight-two-four.”

“You don’t know that for a fact.”

“No, but I don’t believe that bullshit about keeping an eye on Varadero, either. I mean—” She bites it off as Rubineau’s shadow falls across the window and the chauffeur opens the door.

Scotto and I exchange curious looks as Rubineau settles next to me with a spray of lilies. His behavior only deepens the intrigue, as does his silence. The limousine resumes its journey. A series of rights and lefts takes us to a flagstone gatehouse. An elderly attendant looks up and nods blankly. A weathered bronze plaque reads MOUNT NEBO CEMETERY.

“You know your Old Testament, Katkov?” Rubineau prompts as the limousine follows the winding road.

“I’m afraid the study of religion was rather frowned upon when I was growing up.”

“Well, Mount Nebo is the mountain in Canaan where Moses died.”

“Ah, yes, I have a dim recollection of reading that somewhere. If you don’t mind my asking, what’s a Jewish cemetery doing in the middle of Little Havana?”

“It was a Jewish neighborhood called Shenandoah in the fifties. The intriguing part is, as the Cubans began mingling with the Jews, they realized they had something in common.”

“You mean they’ve both been exiled from their homelands.”

“Right. And one group still is—which explains the fascination Cuban refugees have for Israel. It stands as a symbol of what can be attained if you hang in there long enough.”

The limousine comes to a stop. Rubineau takes two black yarmulkes from a compartment between the jump seats. He dons one, hands me the other, and gets out of the car. I haven’t worn one in years, and it takes a moment to get the skullcap situated atop my unruly locks; then Scotto and I hurry after him. The narrow path is lined with headstones that proclaim ROTHER, LEVINE, GOLDBERG, ABRAMOWITZ. It leads to a grove of trees that shade a slab of chest-high granite flanked by octagonal columns, resembling mezuzahs. Simple block letters chiseled across its face spell out the name LANSKY.

Rubineau places the flowers atop the monument and spends a moment in solemn contemplation, then turns to us and says, “It’s fitting that Meyer’s buried here. He loved Cuba, loved the people. He also had a love of history and was very politically astute. He predicted what was going to happen in Cuba. As a matter of fact, he went to the FBI and told them, because he loved his country as well.”

“That’s very moving, Mr. Rubineau,” Scotto says, clearly unmoved.

“I don’t like your tone, Agent Scotto. For your edification, Meyer’s son, Paul, went to West Point.”

“So did Noriega’s chief of staff. I don’t mean to be disrespectful of the dead, but it was a selfish act, and you know it. Lansky had a huge investment there.”

“You bet. Every penny Meyer had went into the Riviera. It was the finest hotel and best-run casino in Havana.”

“That’s my point. He had a lot to lose.”

“So did the United States,” Rubineau fires back. “But they ignored his warning, and look what happened. Soviet missiles ended up a stone’s throw from Miami, and we ended up on the brink of nuclear war.”

Scotto scowls. “We didn’t come here for a history lesson, Mr. Rubineau. What’s all this got to do with Castro hiring you?”

“Not very patient, is she, Katkov?” he prompts with one of his disarming smiles.

I can’t help but return it.

Scotto is stone-faced.

“It all began back in the late forties,” Rubineau explains. “After years of collaboration, Meyer and the Italians had a falling out over Las Vegas. Costello thought it would be a loser and didn’t want to invest. Meyer disagreed and sided with Siegel, who was pushing it. What can I say? The man was a genius. Look at the town today.”

“Yeah,” Scotto snorts facetiously, “A showcase of American integrity and family values.”

“And tax revenues,” Rubineau adds without missing a beat. He winks at me. “Imagine an agent of the U.S. Treasury overlooking taxes? Anyway, it was every man for himself after that. So, when Meyer found out the Italians were in cahoots with the CIA to take out Castro, he decided to take care of Meyer.”

“I recall they tried everything short of nuclear weapons to kill him.”

“Tell me about it,” Scotto replies, disgusted. “It was a comedy of errors. Cyanide pills smuggled into his bedroom by his mistress, a thing with shoe polish to make his beard fall out, poisoned cigars. Nothing worked. Somehow, he always managed to survive.”

“Amazing,” Rubineau concludes with a wiley smile. “At the snap of a finger, they could take out a rival capo protected by an army of wise guys, but they couldn’t get to Castro. How lucky can a guy get?”

Scotto looks from Rubineau to the headstone and back, putting the pieces together. “Lansky tipped Castro to the hits.”

Rubineau nods and allows himself a little smile. “I don’t mean to be immodest, but it was my idea.”

“An idea that eventually got you disbarred.”

“Let’s not get into that,” Rubineau snaps, seething at the memory. “Meyer was against it at first; but once he realized Castro was a fait accompli, he knew he had to take action to save the Riviera.”

“Well, he may have been a genius,” Scotto intones, “but he sure blew the call on that one.”

Rubineau waggles his hand. “The Riviera actually reopened for a while, but then Castro hooked up with the Kremlin, and it was nationalized—along with Kodak, Westinghouse, Wool-worth, and Goodyear, I might add. Hell, the Riviera’s still in business. For years, all the Russian big shots stayed there. Politicians, generals, engineers. They turned the casino into a convention center.” He laughs ironically at a thought. “Now, you can gamble in Moscow but not in Havana.”

“So then it didn’t pay off,” Scotto says, still trying to provoke him.

“It didn’t pay off then . . .” Rubineau says with a mischievous twinkle. He lets it trail off, picks a blossom from a low-hanging branch, and hands it to Scotto. “But it has now.”

Scotto’s eyes come alive, matching the sparkle in his. The final piece to the puzzle falls into place. “That’s the answer to my question, isn’t it?”

Rubineau nods. “Thirty years ago, Castro destroyed the tourist industry and replaced the income with Soviet aid. Now it’s gone. The economy’s in the toilet, and he’s desperate to turn it around. Reestablishing Cuba as a tourist mecca is the only move he’s got. Legalized gambling is the key. And I’m the guy he hired to make it happen.”

“Castro’s way of saying thanks.”

“One way of putting it. Keep in mind, he didn’t settle for a second-string player just to repay a debt. As a matter of fact, I happen to know he talked to the top guys at Radisson and Hyatt to keep me honest. Sure, they could handle it, but no better than Mike Rubineau. Varadero’s already in the black. The hotels are running at an eighty-six percent occupancy rate. The place is becoming a playground for Canadians, Italians, Russians.”

Scotto shakes her head incredulously. “I still can’t believe the State Department agreed to do business with you.”

“Why not? They cooperated with Italian gangsters to kick Castro’s butt. Why not a Jewish entrepreneur to pull Cuba’s out of the fire?”

“An entrepreneur Castro trusts.”

“Very good, Katkov. Besides, compared to what some of our financial wizards have been up to lately, I’m Mr. Clean as far as the USG is concerned.”

“Don’t blow that horn too loud, Mr. Rubineau,” Scotto cautions. “You still have to deal with that two billion in drug money consigned to Turistica Internacional.”

Rubineau nods and runs a hand across the top of Lansky’s tombstone thoughtfully. “You willing to give me the benefit of the doubt?”

“What do you mean?”

“Let that container go to Cuba. I mean, if somebody’s using me, I want to find out who it is as badly as you do.”

“Food for thought,” Scotto muses, studying him obliquely; then she pointedly adds, “If somebody is using you, Mr. Rubineau, we’ll find him. If not, we’ll find that out too.”